The Farm Woman’s Winter


If seasons all were summers,
  And leaves would never fall,
And hopping casement-comers
  Were foodless not at all,
And fragile folk might be here
  That white winds bid depart;
Then one I used to see here
  Would warm my wasted heart!


One frail, who, bravely tilling
  Long hours in gripping gusts,
Was mastered by their chilling,
  And now his ploughshare rusts.
So savage winter catches
  The breath of limber things,
And what I love he snatches,
  And what I love not, brings.

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